Sonnet, by Srikanth Reddy

I was cold.

You wove me a mantle of smoke.

I was thirsty.

You sent me a cloud in a crate.

You sent me a note.

You sent me a crate in a crate with a note saying bury this.

So I struck off with my shovel & never came back.

When the digging was over, I buried my shovel.

I buried it deeper.

Tendered my prospects to dusk.

Some men will make a grave out of anything.

Anything.

It depends on how lonely they get.

Times when a body could dig through the night.